


Pretty baby

by framboise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Camgirl Sansa, Exhibitionism, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Melancholy, Minor Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Modern Westeros, Sex Work, Sugar Daddy, The Night's Watch (ASoIaF), Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-13 06:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/framboise/pseuds/framboise
Summary: Jon has two years left on his Night's Watch contract, two years stuck at the frozen wastelands of the Wall, two years in which to go mad watching his half-sister on her camgirl feed.There's no reason for him to be ashamed of buying her books off her wishlist, of watching her read, there's nothing unbrotherly about that.It's the other things that can't be so readily excused, like how he'll tip her to paint her toenails in her favourite shade of pink and she'll do it resting her cheek guilelessly on one raised knee, the skirt of her dress riding up so that he – so that all of the men watching – can see her pale thighs and a flash of pink silk in between.





	Pretty baby

**Author's Note:**

> If you want visuals for this fic, I made a graphic [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/174235137592/jon-has-two-years-left-on-his-nights-watch)

 

 

She calls herself Alayne, this version of Sansa who strolls across the screen of his battered laptop each night, or each morning if he has the night shift, whose smiles and pale skin and pretty dresses fill his dreams.

He calls himself White_wolf when he comments, when he tips her, referencing a childhood game where he and siblings pretended to be wolves, almost daring her to recognise him, to know that he's one of the faceless men who watch her.

It's lonely at the Wall and every man here has his favourite camgirl, his baby. They talk about them in the mess hall, while they eat without any of the table manners they might use if there were women here - real women and not the models who people their daydreams and fantasies - and mock each other for getting attached to their girls, for graduating from talking about their skills with a dildo and the size of their tits to their smiles and wicked sense of humour, their silly dancing, how their eyes light up when they open packages from their admirers, to their hopes and dreams and the careers they're saving up for.

It was something Jon did idly, scroll through webcam feeds once porn had got stale and he started to crave actual human connection, but he didn't linger long with one girl, didn't have a favourite, until he found his half-sister.

He should have stopped looking the moment those familiar blue eyes looked back at him, he should have clicked away, should have slammed the laptop shut when one pale hand moved to unzip her dress.

But he didn't.

He kept watching. He never exited out of the window at all but left it running day and night, went to sleep watching it, woke up with his head turned towards his laptop, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he watched her go about her morning.

What else could he do - except stop watching it, which he couldn't. He was worried about her and she never replied to the letters and emails he sent anymore, or the phone calls. The Night's Watch had refused his request of compassionate leave after the accident, after every other member of their family was lost, saying that since she was seventeen and her aunt and uncle were there to take her in, she had no need of him, that they needed him more.

He and Sansa, who had never been that close as children, talked a little at the beginning, after it happened. He told her that he'd be out in three years' time, that she could use his portion of the meagre inheritance that was left, after the vultures had taken their pick, to live on in the meantime. Her aunt and uncle were treating her well, she told him, she was getting used to the Vale and she was about to graduate top of her class. But once she turned eighteen she stopped answering.

 

Is it her uncle, the figure with salt and pepper hair whose face is never shown, who she smiles at when he enters her room every few days, wearing a smart suit and carrying bags of shopping for her, who kisses her on the forehead and then drops to his knees to bury his head under her skirts and eat her out as she lies back on her bed, clutching her fingers in his hair, whimpering and whining, writhing, her cheeks flushing pink when she comes?

It's the only sexual content on her stream besides her getting dressed and undressed in front of one of the mirrors that hides a camera behind it. She doesn't have an array of sex toys like the other girls, doesn't touch herself or cup her breasts to show them off to her audience, doesn't even talk to them or show any awareness that there's anyone watching her, just replies leisurely to a few messages on her laptop, tilting it away from view so you're never quite sure what she's doing on there.

That's the seduction of it, the feeling that the voyeurism could be real.

She has a different set-up from other girls, you can't see what the other men watching are messaging, what things they're asking for, tipping her to do, you can only see the messages you send and her infrequent replies.

Not knowing what those other men ask for, what filth they're messaging his sister, drives him mad. He thinks of them, and of that man who touches her, when he's training in the gym, when he's sparring with his men, when he's in the firing range, when his rifle is trained on a target out in the White.

They shouldn't be allowed to watch her, to see her intimate moments.

 _But you should?_ he thinks, as he bends over the sink washing his bruised knuckles, staring at his dark eyes in the mirror.

None of them are her brother, she's not related to any of them; isn't it worse that he watches her?

She accepts tips on her stream and has an amazon wishlist but no PO Box; and instead of using his meagre weekly wages to buy things at the commissary - food to offset the vile slop in the mess, a packet of fags to work his way through slowly, a book to read - he subscribes to her feed and buys her romance novels off her wishlist.

He watches her read them on her soft bed piled with cushions and girly things, lying on her stomach, hair spilling across her shoulders, feet in the air. He watches for the small signs of her response to the story, her toes scrunching, her profile smiling, how she bites her lip at a part that makes her sad, how she'll turn on her back near the end of the book, her eyes racing across the page, how she'll smile once she's finished and clutch the book to her chest, eyes closed, body heaving with a sigh, how she'll get up from the bed and slide the book onto her crowded bookshelves, patting its spine fondly.

There's no reason for him to be ashamed of buying her books, of watching her read, there's nothing unbrotherly about that.

It's the other things that can't be so readily excused - how he'll tip her to paint her toenails in her favourite shade of pink and she'll do it resting her cheek guilelessly on one raised knee, the skirt of her dress riding up so that he - so that all of the men watching – can see her pale thighs and a flash of pink silk in between.

How he'll ask her to brush out her hair or, worse, try on one of the new dresses her visitor - her boyfriend, her pimp, her uncle? - buys her, standing in front of the mirror Jon lurks behind, unbuttoning her blouse or cardigan or dress, slipping them off her arms, pushing them down her hips, standing there in her delicate underwear - all silks and lace and what looks like velvet; with ruffles, bows, laces and straps - before stepping into her new dress and buttoning it up, swaying from side to side as she looks at her reflection – as she looks at all of them – smoothing her hands down creases, making the skirt swish around her legs, twisting her body so she can see what she looks like from behind.

She smiles at the picture she makes, at her reflection, at them, but he can't tell the tone of that smile and it kills him.

Is it all an act? Is she trapped and desperately sad? Or is a part of her relieved, content? Is this a haven for her, a sanctuary where she is looked after, pampered, hidden away from the world that hurt their family, that hurt her; or is a jail, a cage? When she looks at the mirror is she thinking about the people watching her, the people outside, and wishing she could leave, wishing one of them would save her?

She always liked fairytales, his little sister, especially the ones about princesses in towers, but sometimes she didn't want them to be rescued, sometimes she complained when you got to that part in the story, sometimes she hated those endings, said that the princess should stay safe there with her luxuries, with her mirrors and dresses and pretty things.

But you can't base someone's adult personality, their hopes and dreams, on what they wanted when they played as children, surely.

[Jon had wanted to be a knight, to save a fair maiden, to do his bit to protect the realm; more fool him.]

They talk about it, the members of the Night's Watch, debating the ethics of paying for camgirls, how it differs from a girlfriend doing a striptease over Skype or hiring a prostitute; whether the women are entrepreneurs to be praised or victims to be pitied. _But you wouldn't want your daughter to do it, would you_ , the trump card that gets put down.

 

What Jon watches her do, aside from dressing and undressing, aside from being eaten out by her male visitor:

 - making cupcakes at the neat little kitchen counter in her room, licking the batter while they bake in the oven, icing them as she sings and holds out a finger for her cat to lick, making _mmm_ ing noises as she bites into them. The saddest part: when she'll take the tray of finished cupcakes to another part of the room that can't ever be seen - even as he cranes his neck to see it, even as it drives him mad - to bin them or to give them to someone else? She should be baking cakes for her family and friends, he thinks, her kitchen should be full of laughter and company, not silent ghosts hunched over their laptops tapping in sordid things.

\- reading her novels and writing things in her notebooks and scrolling on her laptop while sitting at her desk surrounded by plants she waters carefully once every few days or lying indolently on her bed or on the fluffy sheepskin rug on her floor. Each time she writes something or types something he hopes that she'll hold it up to the mirror for them to see, for him to see, but her inner life remains a mystery and that's probably what makes her feed so seductive to watch. He writes too while he watches her, observations, questions, memories of their childhood, and saves them in his drafts which overflow with unsent emails. _Dear Sansa_ , _I miss you, I miss all of them. Dear Sansa, you look prettiest in that red dress, the one with buttons all the way up, with the skirt that flutters around your knees when you move. Dear Sansa, I'm sick in the head and I'm sorry. Dear Sansa, I have two years left of my contract and once they're up, once they finally pay me the money I'm owed, I'll come and find you, we'll get a tiny house somewhere, I'll let you laze about all day and never have to work, and all the mirrors in the house will be one-way. Dear Sansa, what happened to university? Dear Sansa, I'm sorry I couldn't save them, I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Dear Sansa, I hope you're well._

 _-_ playing with the fluffy white cat she calls Lady, stroking her, crooning to her, waving ribbons for her to catch, laughing as she falls off the bed in her eagerness. To see Sansa laugh is the best thing of all and cracks him wide open. He almost wishes he could tip her to laugh even as he knows how dark that is, how grotesque.

\- embroidering flowers on an old-fashioned wooden hoop while she sings along to playlists of songs he doesn't recognise; choosing the right thread from a pile tangled up by Lady's paws, licking the end of the thread to fit it in the eye of the needle as she frowns in concentration; smoothing her fingers across the finished embroidery, hanging it up on the wall behind her bed, to the sides of the gauzy canopy that hangs from the ceiling and in between the fairy lights strung across.

\- sitting on the cushioned window seat, brushing her hair, and staring - wistfully, fearfully, longingly, sadly, contentedly? - at the view none of them can see.

\- practising something that looks like yoga or pilates, wearing tight leggings whose appearance makes him instantly hard, and a loose jumper that always slips off one of her shoulders, baring a pale patch of skin he would die to kiss.

 

She's on screen almost every hour of every day except for when she enters the door that must lead to her bathroom and closes it firmly behind her. She eats at a little table, she dresses and undresses, she sleeps, and he watches her do everything, she fills all his hours he's not on patrol or training or in a meeting.

She's on screen almost every hour of every day, except for Mondays, when the screen goes dark.

What happens on Mondays? The thought haunts him; his own Mondays becoming fraught with tension, barking at his men, scowling at the world, challenging others to forbidden fights in the basement room their sergeants tactfully avoid.

 

He should have stopped the first moment he saw her, shouldn't have kept watching; but he needed to see that she was alright.

And when she first started to undress, when she peeled off her jumper and dress, he had to see if there were bruises on any of her limbs, if he could find out more about her condition from the swell of her breasts and the smooth lengths of her thighs.

But watching her after she takes off her underwear, as she sits on the end of her bed and smooths moisturiser into all her lovely pale limbs, there's no justification for that, no excuse for how his cock rises in his boxers, for how he bites his lip on a grunt and never looks away.

[The most shameful thing he's done - to order a pot of that exact moisturiser, the body butter that smells of vanilla and cocoa, and use it every time he wanks himself off, despite the fact he's not circumcised like some of the other men, that he doesn't actually need it; and then shower afterwards, not wanting to be mocked for smelling like a girl.

And when he touches himself, trying to close his eyes, trying not to look directly at her, he always pictures himself there, in her room, not anywhere else, the both of them on her bed with all the other men watching. If he's going to fantasize about her, he tells himself, if he's going to be that sick, then he should picture somewhere else, a hotel room, the house he wants to buy them, a secluded beach somewhere. Not trapped in her room, not with an audience.]

 

He likes it best when she draws up her chair before the dressing table mirror to do her make-up, how he can study her face close up, the little creases, the twitches of movement; staring at her looking for recognition, for a sign that she might see him watching her. How if he moves closer too, both their faces fill the exact same ratio of the dark mirror of the screen, how he can compare the similar curve of their cheeks, the line of their brows, see all the people they have lost in their faces. How his reflection is dark enough that he can't see the tears that sometimes track down his cheeks.

 

She's safe, he tells himself when he stalks across the top of the Wall, bracing himself against the winds and the snows and the attacks of the Wildlings. She's warm and well-fed and has everything she needs bar company, he thinks, as he patches up wounds and ices sore muscles, or builds shelters out in the White and shivers inside them, choking down the powdered food that passes for rations, burning his fingers on piece-of-shit stoves that never work. She's alive, he tells himself, when he listens to the radio crackle with horrors while he hunkers down in the control room, staring at little dots on the screen that blink out of view.

She's a comfort to him when he returns to his room: pretty, pure, soft, good. A selfish comfort when all he has to give her in return is petty amounts of cash and the anonymous messages he sends her. She didn't ask him to watch her, to bear witness to her life, but he does, and it's a far pleasanter duty than any of his others.

It's two years now until he's out, until he's free, and he counts down the months and days, dreaming of what's to come.

Of how he'll go the Vale to find her, and save her. How she'll be _real_ and warm in his arms. How he'll stop this sickness, forgetting everything he's seen and heard - the curve of her backside in pink lace, the sound she makes when she comes - and pretend that Alayne was never Sansa, and that he was never anything other than her brother.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, I'd love to know what people think! :)
> 
> my tumblr: [framboise-fics](http://framboise-fics.tumblr.com)
> 
> and there's a rebloggable photoset [here](https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/174235137592/jon-has-two-years-left-on-his-nights-watch)


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